by Lyla Payne
Millie clears her throat, finally sensing that I’m not going to step forward in time to stop Brian from wondering whether I’m completely mute. “I’m sure you don’t remember me, but my husband and I took one of your tours a few years back.”
He gives her a rueful smile. “I do a lot of tours, I’m afraid. Only way to keep up the certification.”
All the tour guides in Charleston have to sit for an exam every year—each time with new or different questions—and pass it to keep their licenses. We take our ghosts seriously around these parts.
“Right, well, I remember you, mostly because I arrived early and you told me a story about a man I’d never heard of before and I grew up going on these tours. You called him the ‘most interesting American I’d never heard of,’ and you were right.”
Recognition lights his eyes and a smile curls up his lips. “Yeah, that would be me. I did my thesis on the guy, and that didn’t get me anywhere, so now I just blab about old Henry Woodward to anyone who will listen.”
He sounds as though he’s joking, but there’s a bitterness to his voice that is so potent it forces Amelia back a step, her back tight and expression wary. Brian seems to struggle for a moment, a weird light in his eye glinting twice before he blinks it away. I shake my head, wondering if I’m bats or he is. Or we both are.
“My cousin is an archivist at the Heron Creek library, so I was trying to remember more about him.” Amelia gives an adorable little laugh. It works on Brian even though she looks like she’s got a basketball stuffed under her shirt. “I couldn’t even remember his name.”
“Well, at least now we know that,” I interject, mostly to try to convince Dr. Ladd that I don’t see him two inches from my face. He’s trying to poke me in the goddamn cheek, and he smells so strongly of wisteria that the sweet scent is going to stick in my nose for hours. I force myself to ignore him. “Henry Woodward. What else?”
“How much time do you have?” Brian jokes, sitting on a bench that faces the park’s statue of George Washington and shooting me a curious look from the corner of his eye.
We’re across the street from St. Michael’s, the longest-standing congregation in the city. Every president who’s visited Charleston since the park’s namesake first did has sat in the same pew. There are plaques on the entrance walls that pay tribute to the members who lost their lives in the Civil War.
That’s the kind of history here in Charleston. In South Carolina. The kind that has roots reaching all the way past the founding of this nation and branches that creep toward both sides in every single conflict. There’s not a cobblestone underfoot, not a half-hidden alley or restored antebellum home that hasn’t witnessed centuries of life and death, love and murder, war and fire and betrayal, and everything else the human race inflicts upon itself and its surroundings.
For a moment, the hugeness of it cows me the way it did when I was a child. I feel small, insignificant in the face of a place that’s stood through all that and will stand through more before it’s finally let off the hook.
I realize Brian’s talking again, nattering on about his favorite historical figure—a habit I can certainly sympathize with—and give him my attention. I still want to know if this Henry Woodward is the guy stinking up my room back home, and maybe even get some tips on how to get rid of him.
Dr. Ladd makes it easier for me to focus by backing off slightly, now watching me from a few feet away with his arms crossed over his chest and his head cocked to the side like a confused dog. Even without looking right at him, it’s hard not to notice how handsome he is. Was. Whatever.
“Henry Woodward was just twenty years old in 1666 when he sailed to the new territories in the Carolinas,” Brian continues. “He was part of the very first exploratory expedition here and served as both the ship’s doctor and the cook, despite his age. They landed and started to poke around, establishing a relationship with the local natives before deciding it was time to return to England for supplies and settlers. As was the custom at the time, the English struck a bargain with the natives in which they left one of their own behind and took a Native back with them in the spirit of trying to understand one another’s culture.”
“How fast that policy of understanding took a nosedive into the shitter, huh?” I say. Brian raises his eyebrows at me. “What? Have I offended your delicate sensibilities?”
“Mine? No. But your cousin seems like quite the lady.”
I snort before I can think better of it, and Amelia reaches out to whack my arm. She turns apologetic doe eyes on our source. “I’ve been working on her for years, Brian, but I’m afraid there’s just no hope.”
He looks as though he wants to say more on the matter but doesn’t. It makes me actually like him a little.
“Anyway,” he drawls, “our young Henry ran into trouble. The peaceful tribe he was living with was attacked by cannibals.”
“Cannibals?” The disbelief in my voice rings so clear it makes even me cringe, but it’s too late to take it back.
“Yes, cannibals. I can assure you that I’ve done my research, Miss … ?”
“Harper.” I’m not that keen on telling him my name, and Amelia is going to hear it from me later given she spilled that we live in Heron Creek and work at the damn library.
“May I continue?”
My eyes try to roll. It hurts to stop them. “By all means.”
“Very well. Henry Woodward escaped the cannibals” —a glance toward me—“and managed to make his way to Spanish Florida. Now, I’m sure you’re aware that the English and Spanish were not exactly on good terms; however, Henry had a skill, and doctors were hard to come by in the New World. They took him in.”
Amelia nudges me, as though I could have missed the fact that already in Henry’s young life he would have dressed in the three different styles that he’s visited me wearing. I ignore her, and try to do the same to Dr. Ladd, who’s circling me now, opening and closing his mouth as if just figuring out he can’t talk to the living. He looks frustrated by the realization.
You and me both, pal.
“Then what happened?” I ask, truly interested now.
“His story just gets weirder and weirder. The Spanish settlement was attacked by pirates or privateers—English or French, we’re not sure—and they slaughtered pretty much everyone. Woodward somehow managed to convince them he was an English prisoner of the Spanish, and once again, his skills as a doctor saved him. The pirates took him along for the ride when they left.”
He pauses, eyebrows raised for effect. The silence goes on for too long. He seems annoyed by our refusal to give into his showmanship.
Amelia finally urges him forward. “And then?”
“The pirate ship is wrecked in a storm and Woodward is the only survivor, so far as he knows. He washes up on a deserted island where he barely has time to settle in before three ships appear on the horizon, intent on stopping on the island to replenish their fresh water supply.” Another pause for effect. “The ships were the ones commissioned by the English to ferry settlers to the colony at ‘Charles Towne,’ the very place Henry had landed the first time.”
It’s so unbelievable that it takes my brain a few moments to put together the pieces. “That’s crazy. It’s like he was meant to do something amazing. What happened to him?”
“They picked him up, of course, and returned him to Carolina. He spent some time helping the colonists negotiate with the natives, since he spoke several dialects, then died a short time later of a disease. A fever of some kind.” He puts out his hands, palms up. “Not a very auspicious end, I’m afraid.”
“Incredible. And Charles Towne was founded in 1670, so all of this took place in … ten years or so?” I guess.
“Definitely fewer than twenty. He probably wasn’t even forty when he died.”
We stand in silence for a moment, a cool breeze threading through the humidity and bringing with it the promise, however slight, of autumn tiptoeing toward the lowcountry. Clouds blot
out the moon, sailing smoothly through the midnight sky, smudging away stars on their trip from one heaven to another. We might get that storm soon, after all.
“Thank you, Brian. I really appreciate you telling the story again. Grace just loves things like this.”
“It’s my pleasure. You said you’re an archivist?” He digs a card out of his back pocket and hands it over as I nod. “Let me know if I can be of any further help. And, of course, if you find anything more about Henry, anything concrete, I’d love to hear about it. He’s a bit of an obsession of mine.”
I take the card. “Okay.”
“Because I’ve already done all of this research—the premiere historian on his trail, you know—so it wouldn’t be right for you to publish without letting me know, or giving me credit.”
“I’m not planning on it,” I tell him honestly, uncomfortable under his stern glare.
It’s obvious he wants to ask what our interest is, but I’ll be damned if I’m going to tell him anything. Freaking weirdo.
I’m still ignoring Dr. Ladd, who hasn’t gone away, when Brian bids us good night. The ghost is grinning now, a thrilled, unstoppable smile that tells me he’s decided I can see him, after all. The fact leaves me deflated as we linger in the park long enough to avoid an awkward walk back toward Market Street with our knowledgeable and slightly overeager tour guide. I’ve had enough of socializing for one night, and as nice as the brief moonshine high was earlier, all it’s doing for me now is giving me the beginnings of a headache.
There’s something about Brian that bothers me. He’s too proprietary of Henry Woodward, too much of a stickler for the facts and rules on a tour that depends on people’s belief in the unknown. And the way he watched me after finding out what I do for a living … I don’t know. He definitely has some sort of agenda when it comes to other historians. We’re a competitive lot by nature but generally trust that the rules are well-worn enough to go unspoken. Odd, that he didn’t trust me to give him credit if I end up using his research. If he really did write a thesis on Henry Woodward it would be easy enough to find—and cite.
We reach the Old Slave Market, as the locals call it when they’re trying to snag tourists, which has closed down for the night. The street is quieter than it was earlier, but not empty in this extended tourist season. No worries over being two women wandering alone at night enter my head, not in this city. Never in this city.
Which is why I can’t help squeaking when a dark wrinkled hand darts out of the night and snatches my wrist. I try to wrench it away and Amelia whirls, alerted by my panic. An old woman slides out of the shadows, the clouds in front of the moon drifting past fast enough to give me a brief glimpse of her weathered face. Her walnut skin is oily and cracked, and her huge brown eyes brim with wisdom and kindness … and a fair amount of amusement.
I relax and she lets me go. I rub my wrist and take in the sweetgrass baskets and trinkets at her feet, long, loose blades gathered into bundles. My apprehension spikes again at the realization that she’s one of the Gullah women.
Gullah, what voodoo became when it left the islands and landed in the lowcountry.
“You girls know what you’re going tah do ’bout that curse?” she asks, eyes wandering around our bodies as if she’s tracing a chalk outline.
“Wh-what curse?” Millie stammers.
“It’s as plain as the nose on mah face. Tho why summunt would waste the powerful magic on two white women is beyont me.” She squints and licks her lips. “Y’all got money? Mah ride ain’t comin’, ’pparently.”
Amelia starts to sputter, no doubt to give her what for over trying to scam us for cash, but I reach into my pocket and grab a ten-dollar bill. I hang on to it when she tries to snatch it away, resulting in both of us hanging on to a silly green piece of paper. “You can have the ten dollars but you have to tell us how we break the curse.”
“Only way tah break that there curse is tah break the curse.”
Millie rolls her eyes. “Oh yeah, that makes a ton of sense. Come on, Grace.”
She tugs on me but I stay, my feet rooted. There’s so much we need to know, and no one is going to tell us. Who knows if she’s telling the truth about being able to see it or sense it, but it seems too odd to be a coincidence. “How do you know we’re cursed? What’s it do to us?”
The old woman shrugs, spitting a wad of tobacco on the sidewalk. “Y’all feel it, yah do. Sense it. Dream it. It’ll gitcha one way or ’nother.”
I let go of the money, the memory of last night’s dream spinning a web in my mind. It catches thoughts and suspicions, and makes me wonder for the first time whether Mrs. LaBadie even has to be near us to fulfill her birthright. To wipe out our line.
Not according to this woman.
“What’s your name?” I breathe, one hand pressed against my chest.
“Theys call me Odette.”
“You work outside the market, Odette?” She nods. “You think we could ask you some more questions sometime? Or that you might know someone who can help us?”
She pauses too long for anything she says next to be the whole truth, but her head tips in a nod. “Yessir. Though tha curse hanging about you be old. And strong. Gonna take summant special to knock it loose. But could be I’d ask around, if I had me some more funds to make the trips, you understand. Find some answers for yah girls.”
I give her another ten dollars, even though Amelia’s making exasperated grunts every five seconds. We bid Odette good night and get to the car without further incident. My cousin gives up asking me what in the hell I was thinking giving Odette money after I fail to come up with a good answer to the first three inquiries, and we spend the ride to her parents’ house in silence.
There’s no good reason to think Odette—or any supposed voodoo practitioner—isn’t a con artist. Their ilk has long been known to be swindlers and thieves, as well as passionate in the practice of their faith, but something about the way she looked at us, as though our demise hung around us like an extra layer of skin, sent goose bumps up and down my arms. Not to mention that telling two girls they’re cursed doesn’t seem the brightest way to get them to fork over money.
Her appearance gets to me the same way that dream last night did—the way it felt more like a warning than a trick of the mind.
Amelia and I are way out of our depth here, and having another person on our side, even one keen to empty my pockets, doesn’t sound like the worst idea I’ve ever had. Of course, there’s plenty of competition for that.
Chapter Seven
The Whistling Doctor follows me right up the front steps of my aunt and uncle’s modest, yet gorgeously restored home on the outskirts of Charleston’s historic district. The best thing about it is that it’s within easy walking distance of Hominy Grill, one of the most-touted—and not at all overrated—breakfast and brunch spots in the city. The home where Amelia grew up sits on the quiet dead-end of Carrere Court, and the fact that there’s peeling paint under parts of the siding and the shutters are faded almost makes the place feel more regal.
Dr. Ladd is whistling a merry tune as we stand outside the house, but my cousin still can’t hear it. I’ve given up ignoring him, since he’s obviously not going anywhere, but no way am I mentioning him to Millie in front of Aunt Karen and Uncle Wally, since the former has been convinced of my mental incompetence for years. She barely trusted me to take care of Gramps. If Millie wants to stay with me in Heron Creek for the time being, or even after the baby’s born, then I need to try my best not to tick off Aunt Karen, no matter how much it amuses me.
Talking to a ghost wouldn’t be the best idea, either.
I don’t say anything as we wait to be admitted, wondering briefly why Millie doesn’t have a key. She probably does, but maybe she wants to keep up the idea that we’re guests—herself included—and not walk in as though she has the right. My stomach’s upset, rumbly after the unsettling, unexpected conversation with Odette.
I try to force her from m
y mind, to focus on committing what we learned about Henry to memory instead. His story is one of the more unbelievable—and interesting—historical accounts I’ve heard in my many years buried under moldy research, but none of it leads to an obvious reason why he’d be haunting me. What he left undone. Why he refuses to turn that frown upside down and flutter off into the light. It’s going to take more work, and I guess I’d been hoping that something, for once, would be easy.
The Coopers, due mostly to their surname, have more status than tangible assets, so instead of being greeted by the help, as we would in many Charleston homes, my aunt answers the door. A billow of awful, floral perfume belches onto the porch and I hold my breath, hoping it will dissipate before I run out of oxygen. I’d rather pass out than breathe it in.
The look of disgust on Dr. Ladd’s handsome, filmy face almost makes me giggle. The man has apparently kept hold of his good taste. It endears him to me, despite his insistent stalking. If I let myself think about his tragic story, he would worm further into my heart. Poor guy just wanted to marry the girl, and got a bullet in the knee for his trouble. Tales like Joseph Ladd’s, more than just about anything else, make it hard for me to believe in the benevolent God of Christianity. It had been a given for me, once, but, like my cousin’s, my faith has floundered along the way.
“Amelia Anne, darling.” Despite the fact that it’s going on 11:00 p.m., my aunt sports a face of caked-on makeup, a dress, panty hose, and heels. Her dark brown hair—which I have an ongoing bet with myself actually went gray years ago—is coiffed into a French twist. Her lips curl in distaste when she spies me on the porch behind her daughter. To her credit, she at least tries to turn it into a welcoming smile. It’s not her fault that her mouth is out of practice.
“Graciela. How kind of you to bring my daughter home.”
She emphasizes the last word and I bite my tongue, silencing the retort that her home is with me in Heron Creek. That’s Millie’s bomb to drop. If she decides, with everything else going on, that she wants to stay here with her mother, I’m not going to be a bitch about it.